You were my servant and I your slave:
O golden attic! O joy, to lace
Your corset; to watch you showing, at morn,
The ancient mirror your youthful face!
Ah! who indeed could ever forget
That sky and dawn commingling still;
That rìbbony, flowery, gauzy glory,
And Love’s sweet nonsense talked at will?
Our garden a pot of tulips was;
Your petticoat curtained the window-pane;